


Out ta Get You

by Focalist



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Multi, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-04 18:43:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14599323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Focalist/pseuds/Focalist
Summary: When Ryuji Sakamoto and Akira Amamiya meet--two down-on-their-luck loners in a back alley near their school--no one would have predicted the rise of the most electrifying, most dangerous rock act to hit Japan in years.But there's much to be done before Akira, Ryuji, and the rest of the Phantom Thieves can establish their legend in the annals of rock. They're hounded by the shadows of their pasts, a mysterious drug called Tartarus, and a plutocratic producer determined to silence them forever.





	1. Baby, This Town

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of the Persona series, nor of any songs that appear in part within this story. This is a work of fanfiction; no profit was earned from it.  
> On the timeline of rock: This alternate universe features and refers to a number of fictional and real bands. Some real songs are ascribed to the fictional bands whoses stories unfold here, so the bands that made those songs do not, by necessity, exist in this timeline.  
> I understand that if you pursued this to its logical conclusion, the timeline of rock music would be vastly altered--but bear with me; there's a limit to how much I can do within the laws of time, space, and rock and roll in a fanfic written in my free time.  
> That said, I hope you enjoy and I look forward to hearing your thoughts in the comments. \m/

It took just a few seconds for the rain to go from drizzle to downpour, forcing Ryuji to sprint the last few meters of the intersection. He slowed down soon as he was beneath the overhanging roof of a storefront. There were a few other Shujin togs around him, but they hurried past. Keeping their distance, probably. He let them get ahead of him, sticking to his own easy pace.

As their ranks thinned, Ryuji found himself left with two other students, who were standing still in front of a car. One was some no-name with his face hidden in his bangs. The other was a familiar flaxen-haired apparition—she was there one moment and then vanished behind the sedan’s door.

Ryuji picked up his pace and caught a glimpse of the car’s plate just before the curtains of rain hid it from sight.

“Kamoshida,” he spat.

The other student turned to regard him. Ryuji noticed a pair of glasses behind the waves of hair and, behind those, a pair of eyes regarding him curiously. He was a little shorter than Ryuji, his skin a bit lighter, and looked sort of spacey in general. He clutched his school bag in his right hand and had a ratty looking guitar case on his back.

“No ride for our ugly mugs, huh? Looks like playing in the band doesn’t get you on King Kamoshida’s good side.”

The boy looked from Ryuji to the road that the car had sped down. Then he looked back to Ryuji. “You’re in the band?”

“Like hell, I am. I meant you.” He jerked his chin at the guitar case. Paused. “Aren’t you?”

Glasses shook his head. “I just moved here.”

“Yeah?” Ryuji vaguely recalled hearing some whispers about a new student moving in but with the attention he gave school rumors—that is, none—he couldn’t have guessed if he’d heard it a week ago or a season ago. “Were you going to join it?”

“I was thinking about trying it out.”

“Your funeral.” Ryuji carried on toward the school, vaguely aware of the new guy following a respectful distance behind him. Just as they were nearing the last turn toward the school, he heard a shout from behind him.

“Hey—!”

Ryuji turned around to see the new guy sprint into one of the side alleys. “The hell?” He would have left it at that—not his problem if some rando wanted to detour before school—but glasses guy’s disappearance was followed, shortly after, by a loud clattering and a feral screech.

Ryuji ran after him.

Whatever he had expected, this wasn’t it. Glasses—if he could still be called that—was sprawled on his ass under an overhanging ledge, upon which was perched a black cat with white markings. Which had one arm of a pair of glasses in its mouth.

“Did that cat—”

“Steal my glasses, yeah.” the new guy said. He raised a hand to his face and only then did Ryuji notice he was bleeding.

Ryuji helped him to his feet. He pulled a bandana from out of his bag and handed it to him.

“Thanks.”

They returned their attention to the cat, which, for its part, stared coolly back at them. There was a piece of metal glinting around its neck.

“M… Mna?” Ryuji said, squinting at it.

“Morgana.”

Ryuji looked at him. Then at the cat. “Your eyes are pretty good for someone who needs glasses but doesn’t have them.”

The new guy ignored him and took a step toward the cat, which hissed loudly in response. He backed off then tried again, more slowly. Same result. He improvised on this theme a few times, but the cat kept the same cold attitude.

“Let me try,” Ryuji said. He rummaged around in his bag again and produced a small triangular plastic case. He opened it and presented the contents—a large, if sort of lopsided rice ball—to the cat.

There was a moment’s pause. Next thing they knew, the cat had darted down and swiped the rice ball—dropping the glasses in the process.

New guy wasted no time picking them up and hustling out of the alley.

“You owe me,” Ryuji said, following his lead.

“Right. I’ll pay you back, uh...”

“Ryuji Sakamoto. Class 2-D.”

“Akira Amamiya. Class 2-E.”

“And don’t forget the bandana. But wash it first. I don’t want your blood on anything.”

 

***

 

Akira heard the bell ringing just as they rounded the last turn before the school. There were a couple of students just outside the gates hurrying in. He turned toward Ryuji.

“Go ahead,” he replied. When Akira hesitated, he added: “I’ve got a bad leg. Not like one more tardiness will do me any harm.”

Akira nodded then took off as quickly as he could with his guitar case weighing him down. He gained the gateway just as the bell cut to silence. At the foot of the stairs, he paused to catch his breath.

“So close.”

Akira looked up. Standing at the top of the stairs was a tall man dressed in a pair of slim black trousers and a billowy dress shirt that was open deep into his chest. The voice seemed small for his appearance.

“Wait a minute,” the man went on, “You seem familiar. Do I know you?”

Akira was about to shake his head when an image cut into his mind. The face in the sedan. The one Ryuji had called—“Mr. Kamoshida?”

The teacher’s eyes widened slightly. Then he smiled. “I see! You must be the new student.”

Akira nodded.

“A musician, huh?”

He nodded again.

“Well, I guess I can let it go this time. After all, you’re still new to the area, right?”

Akira nodded. “Thank you, sir.” He started up the stairway. When he reached the top, Mr. Kamoshida dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Just make sure you’re not late next time. After all...” with a slight push, he turned Akira around to face the gate. “We wouldn’t want you to end up like him, now, would we?”

Ryuji glared up at them from the foot of the stairs.

Mr. Kamoshida dismissed Akira with a couple of taps on the shoulder, but even as he walked away, he could hear the words being traded on the stairs.

“I’ll let it slide for you too,” Mr. Kamoshida said. “I hear injured legs can act up when the weather changes. At least these days you don’t have to bring your instrument to school, right?”

“No music at this school I’d wanna play anyway,” Ryuji replied.

Akira’s step faltered hearing that, but he kept going. He couldn’t afford any further delays. Besides whatever the blonde punk’s beef with Mr. Kamoshida—the girl from that morning was probably involved—it didn’t concern him, anyway.

By the time he reached the second floor, the teachers’ droning voices were already hovering in the all. Sign boards over the classrooms read 2-A, 2-B, 2-C… Wrong wing. He backtracked and went down the other hallway. There: 2-E.

The teacher he’d met the day before, Ms. Kawakami, was already standing in front of the class, saying, “...he not here yet?”

Akira composed himself outside the room and stood in the doorway. It was enough to draw her attention. “Excuse me,” he said when she turned to him. “I got lost on my way here.”

“Right. Well, hurry up and introduce yourself.”

He nodded and strode to the middle of the room. “Good morning. I’m Akira Amamiya. I recently moved to Tokyo. Pleased to meet you.”

Some quiet chatter followed, which Ms. Kawakami spoke right over. “Take a seat over there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Akira said. He followed her outstretched hand but almost missed a step as he did. Just in front of the seat he was to take was the blonde girl he’d seen that morning. She met his glance for a second before turning her blue eyes to the window.

Akira made his way as discreetly as he could to the seat. But as he passed the blonde, she said in a whisper meant clearly just for him, “Liar. I saw you.”

But she was still looking out the window.

He set his guitar case by the wall and sat down. There was nothing more to be said, it seemed.

 

***

 

The sun was low in the sky by the time Ryuji finished cleaning the room. He leaned against the edge of the teacher’s desk and massaged the ache in his legs. All that damn mopping.

It was the fourth time that month that some band kid had asked him to take over his cleaning duties, pulling “I really can’t miss rehearsals” as an excuse. He’d lost count of how many times he’d heard some variation of that but to their credit, it never got old. Sometimes it’d be delivered haughtily by the flautist in the back row. Other times, it’d be the sniveling trombonist from the front, wringing his hands while he said it. Sometimes they’d try to switch it up.

Whatever the case, Ryuji would agree. Then he’d watch the rest of the class pack up and go. And then he’d put his back into the cleaning. No doubt there would be some surprise waiting for him if he refused. And if he half-assed the job, whoever had asked him to spot them would rat on him to the teacher or maybe right to Kamoshida—someone, anyway—and Ryuji would take the fall.

But if he did the work, no one could fault him. He’d have a cleaner classroom and no one could say he was just some punk who’d never contribute to society.

No one could say he’d been raised wrong.

As soon as the ache in his leg had subsided, Ryuji gathered up his belongings and left the room. The hallway was quiet except for sounds from the sports clubs out in the quad and in the field. There were two girls hanging out by the vending machine on the first floor. He made his way toward it, paying them as little mind as possible. To their credit, they returned the favor, carrying on with their conversation as if he weren’t there.

“...in some shady shit. I heard it was drugs.”

“No way? Was it Tartarus?”

“How would I know?”

“But doesn’t he look kind of… you know, spaced out?”

“You think he takes—”

Ryuji’s drink hit the dispensing tray and the girl cut her statement short. She and her friend shot him a glance. He ignored it, retrieved the can, and popped the tab.

The girls carried on.

“Anyway, there’s obviously no way Kamoshida’s going to let him stick around. Imagine if he lost it during a show or something.”

“Do they ‘lose it?’ I thought they just became, like, zombies?”

“What I heard happens is that...”  
After guzzling half his drink down on the spot, Ryuji headed off toward the school gate.

It was pretty late, but if the crowds were no thicker than usual, he’d make it home with an hour or so before dinner. He could try out a few new riffs then—the neighbors didn’t usually make it home earlier than that, meaning there’d be no one to complain. Or he could drop by Tsutaya instead and get a copy of the Velvet Limousine single that dropped the week before. Unless, of course, some idol or other had also released a new tune, in which case it’d be too crowded to bother. But would the single still be around if he waited any longer?

As he was crossing the courtyard, weighing his options, he saw three of Kamoshida’s band members: a couple of hulking drummers and some scrawny kid whose name he couldn’t remember. The two drummers were joking animatedly but stopped to glare when they caught sight of him. He ignored them and went right on through the gate. He turned at the end of the street, retracing his path toward the station.

Then stopped short as a faint melody tugged at his ears. He stood still a while, listening to confirm what he was hearing. Slowly, as if rising in volume, the music became clearer, as did the lyrics that accompanied it.

_...from the god of fear and he chained me to despair…_

Ryuji moved slowly. The music seemed to be coming from a side alley nearly choked off by a netted down garbage pile. He slid through and peered inside. Deep in the shadows, a glowing phone screen quivered as it played the music. A cat, black with white patches, was pacing nervously beside it. And a few feet away, Akira was slumped over on the ground, arms wrapped around his guitar case.

***

 

“This is the place.”

Ryuji looked up at the sign on the door. Leblanc Coffee and Jazz. Outside the simple, somewhat retro glass storefront was a small sign board advertising curry, as well as things that might have been varieties of coffee or the names of jazz artists. Ryuji had no way of knowing.

“You live here?”

“Yeah.”

“For real?”

A bell chimed as Akira pushed the door inward.

“Welcome to Leblanc,” said a middle-aged man working the bar. He had on a pair of old-fashioned spectacles and his hair was slicked two ways: into a crest behind his head and a point below his chin.

“I’m back,” Akira said.

The man looked up then and his face fell. “Oh, it’s you. What happened to your glasses? And your face?”

Fortunately for the two of them, that was all that showed of Akira’s encounters that day: a couple of scratches on his face and a twisted pair of glasses.

“A cat attacked me in the alley. I, uh, fell over.”

“Yeah? Well, don’t go getting mixed up in any trouble. This a friend of yours?”

“Afternoon, Mister, uh...”

“Just call him ‘Boss,’” chimed in a voice from the back. A roundish man was seated there, eyes fixed on the television set playing at the back of the room.

“If you’re staying upstairs, just keep it down.”

Akira’s face twisted strangely. “Right,” he said. “I was thinking of treating him to a cup of coffee.”

“Sure. It’s on you,” Boss said. He turned to Ryuji. “What’ll it be?”

“I’ll have the… uh… Surprise me?”

Boss frowned. Ryuji was about to amend his order when the older man shrugged. “Come back for it in two minutes.”

“Come on,” Akira said. He stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to Ryuji. “Don’t expect much.”

That was plainly an understatement. The space looked like a storage room that someone had moved a bed into to make it just barely hospitable. Or maybe that was too generous. The bed looked as dusty as everything else.

“So how long have you been here?” Ryuji asked.

“Just moved in yesterday,” Akira said. He kicked a large duffel bag leaning against one of the shelves. “Haven’t had time to fix things up yet.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Akira motioned to an old chair standing by the edge of the room. Ryuji spun it around and straddled it, arms crossed over the backrest. “So, what exactly happened to ya?”

“Let me go get your coffee, then I’ll explain.”

Akira returned a moment later with a mug of fragrant liquid that Ryuji couldn’t force farther than his tongue, so Akira kept the drink and sipped it as Ryuji listened to his story.

It was more or less what he had suspected. Akira had turned up to the band to try and audition and Kamoshida had some of his goons take him elsewhere, supposedly to give him an individual assessment. Akira had sensed something was up and so refused to cooperate. They tried to get his stuff anyway and ended up shoving him into a pile of garbage before piling on him themselves.

“It was only a couple of kicks and punches before Morgana showed up, though.”

“Morgana… What, the cat?”

“Yeah. Jumped in the face of one of them and started clawing him. They couldn’t fend him off, so they turned around and ran. Probably. I was sort of… out of it by then. Guess that rice ball paid off, though.”

“Or that crazy cat scratches anyone that goes in its alley.”

Akira shrugged. “Saved me from a lot worse.” After a moment, he carried on. “Is that how Kamoshida does things?”

“Ha! Yeah. Beats people on a whim and throws his weight around. There are rumors that he does worse, too, especially with the band. But the school tolerates him ‘cause he’s some sort of big shot pianist before and now he gets the band to win competitions.  The band keeps quiet to get a shot at making it big one day. And that’s how it goes.”

“I see,” Akira said.

“You’re probably better off not joining the band,” Ryuji said.

“I guess.

“Say, back in the alley, your phone was ringing. That song—“Burn My Dread,” right?”

“Yeah.”

“Aw, hell yeah! Sick choice of a ring tone.”

“Uh…”

“You know of S.E.E.S. then, obviously?”

Akira smirked “Who doesn’t?”

“Our whole damn school, if I had to guess. There’s, like, one other person I know who’s heard of them.”

“Yeah? Who?”

Ryuji’s look soured. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, that the sort of stuff you’re into, huh? What else you listen to?”

Akira shrugged. “Velvet Limousine, Devil Survivor, Innocent Sin. Some Western bands, too, of course.”

“Hell yeah!” Ryuji shot up from the chair. “A man of culture!”

Akira winced. “Shh. Or the Boss’ll throws us out.”

Ryuji grinned sheepishly as he sat back down. “But man, it’s been way too long since I’ve heard anyone mention those names. It’s like everyone just forgot after S.E.E.S. broke up.”

A faint smile etched itself on Akira’s face. “The first time I went to Tokyo was for them.”

“A good old rock pilgrimage, huh?”

Akira smirked. “Yeah. I used to think one day I’d just go to Tokyo and make it big. But, well, this isn’t quite the start I was expecting.”

“ _Baby, this town rips the bones from your back._ ”

Akira grinned. “Springsteen.”

“You know what?” Ryuji stood up. “Now that I know you’ve got taste, I wanna hear how you play. What do you say? I know a place where we can cut loose. Nothing fancy, but you can strum a guitar and scream as loud as you want. You down for it?”

“Sounds good. What’s the plan?”

“Tomorrow after school. Meet me at Hachiko. This is gonna rock.”


	2. Double-Talking Jive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akira's second day at Shujin could hardly be worse than his first, right? But Kamoshida's pet students aren't quite done with him yet. The harshness of their methods, however, may leave him with a weakness to exploit--after all, life's too short to play to someone else's beat.

The bell had just rung the end of classes when the school P.A. system crackled to life. “Would the following students please report to the faculty room,” Kawakami’s electronically reconstructed voice said, “Akira Amamiya and Yuuki Mishima.” Akira sensed his classmates’ gazes shifting toward him, so he wasted no time exiting the classroom.

It wasn’t so bad out in the hall. All the students there were already caught up chatting with friends or hurrying to get someplace else. No attention to spare for yet another kid plunging through the crowd with his head down. Fortunately, it seemed that while people outside his class knew him by reputation, they didn’t know him by face.

If he could keep it that way for even a year, he’d count it as a minor triumph.

Several students in tracksuits were obstructing the corner where the bridgeway adjoined the classroom wing, apparently oblivious to the trouble they were causing. Still, the previous day had given Akira more than enough trouble, so he squeezed through silently behind them. But just when he thought he was in the clear, he felt a dull impact that sent him stumbling back against the wall.

With a shake of his head, he pulled himself back into the moment: a girl was standing opposite him, with a thin sheaf of papers in her arms. Around her, several more sheets were gliding slowly to the floor. The girl followed their progress with her eyes, stuck between her intent to retrieve them and the trouble of holding on to what remained of the stack.

Mumbling an apology, Akira crouched down, gathered the papers that had fallen—sheet music, he noted—and then added them to the stack that the girl was carrying. He kept his eyes down through all of this to avoid eye contact but couldn’t help but notice her hands: scars and calluses crisscrossed her fingers and her nails were a mess of scraps and blunt ends.

“Thanks,” the girl said, breaking his reverie. She stood to one side, leaving just enough space for him to pass. He didn’t wait for an invitation.

 

***

 

Akira already had an idea of why he was being called to the faculty room but what he saw as he entered almost brought a curse to his lips. Standing in front of Ms. Kawakami’s desk were the two oafs who’d whaled on him the previous day, as well as the scrawny kid they’d dragged with them—only he was now sporting two large bruises to his face, including one that had left his eye swollen.

He had a sinking feeling he knew where this was going.

“Are you familiar with these three?” Ms. Kawakami asked, gesturing toward his tormentors from the previous day. There was a tightness to her voice that he’d become unpleasantly familiar with in the past months.

Akira nodded.

Kawakami waved them off and the three moved to stand by the wall some three meters away. “Right,” she continued. “They came by with a fairly serious complaint, so I need to get your side of the story. What happened yesterday after class?”

“I didn’t hit him. Any of them, I mean.”

“I’m afraid what _didn’t_ happen won’t quite cut it. I need to know what _did_ happen.”

He took a breath to steady himself, then began.

“After classes ended, I went to the band’s rehearsal room to apply. Mr. Kamoshida asked me to wait outside until he could arrange for someone to audition me. After a while, he came back out; he said Mishima would assess me with the help of those two; Takeishi and Nakaoka, I think?”

Kawakami nodded. He continued.

“They said we’d best go somewhere quiet, so I followed them but I got suspicious when we went off-campus. They took me to an alley and asked to see my guitar. I suspected they were planning something shady, so I refused.”

“Why did you suspect that?” Kawakami said.

“They mentioned… well, the stuff that happened back home.”

“I understand that’s a sensitive subject but not everyone who mentions it—”

“I haven’t told anyone about what happened. I was told it would be kept confidential.”

“That… It should have been. But I’m afraid we can’t keep students from making their own inquiries into their new classmates. Sorry, go on.”

“Well, after I refused...” After he’d refused, it had been a beatdown. Well, a short struggle and then a beatdown, but that hardly mattered. They’d shoved him to the ground, stepped on his shoulders, kicked his ribs, dragged him around by the ankle—the works. But if he’d learned anything in the last two days, it was that Kamoshida and his pet students followed a different rulebook.

He’d have to pick his battles.

“They still insisted. But like I said, I was suspicious, so I kept my distance. That’s when I stumbled into a trash can. I think a cat was hiding in their and it came out looking kind of annoyed. I think it scared them off and, well… that’s that.”

Ms. Kawakami fixed him with a piercing stare. “You’re sure that’s it? Nothing left to add?”

Akira shook his head.

Ms. Kawakami motioned to the other three students and had them stand a few feet away from Akira, facing him.

“Now that I’ve heard both sides, I’ll be looking into this further. For now, I want no trouble out of you three.”

“Of course, Ms. Kawakami,” Takeishi or Nakaoka piped up. “We’ll be sure he comes nowhere near Mishima from here on out.”

At the corner of his vision, Akira could see them leering at him, daring him to speak. But he kept his eyes fixed on Ms. Kawakami’s desk. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

 

***

 

Only a few streaks of light were left in the sky when Ryuji finally saw Akira emerge from the Shibuya scramble. He stood up from the concrete ledge he was sitting on and approached.

“Sorry it took me so long," Akira said. "I had to attend to some stuff after class.”

“Don’t sweat it. Not like we’re in much a rush. Or do you have a curfew?”

“I have to be back before my guardian closes for the night. Otherwise I’ll probably be locked out.”

“Probably?”

Akira shrugged. “I didn’t ask about the specifics. Don’t want him to think I’m actually considering the possibility.”

“Gotcha.”

The karaoke place Ryuji had in mind was just a couple of blocks away, but the evening crowd stretched the trip by a few minutes. When they got to the counter, the receptionist informed them that the only room available had a reservation in an hour-and-a-half.

“Better than nothing,” Akira said, so Ryuji took it.

“Do you have any guitars we can rent?” Ryuji asked. After checking a digitized catalog, the receptionist said he’d bring it to them in the booth.

“So you can rent guitars at karaoke booths in Tokyo...”

“Not all of them,” Ryuji said. “They’re kind of rare. I mean, the only place other than this is like twenty minutes away, so I’m pretty glad we got this room. So, what should we start with?”

“What do you usually sing?” Akira asked as he swiped through the menu tablet.

“Hmm, usually foreign stuff. Ratt, Twisted Sister, that sort of thing. I can hold my own with Junpei’s parts on most of the S.E.E.S. tracks—”

“Nice!” The words _Burn My Dread – S.E.E.S._ appeared on the screen.

“H-hold on! The machine doesn’t count it if you don’t sing the melody. Dumb thing.”

“No problem,” Akira said. The screen lit up, confirming the song and the backing track began. “I’ll take that.”

Ryuji blinked. “Oh yeah? Well, don’t mess it up.”

“Don’t worry. Here.”

Akira tossed him the other mic and Ryuji snatched it out of the air. “One-two, one-two,” he spat into the mic as the first chords sounded, mimicking the affectations of a sound technician.

This elicited a smirk from Akira, but only for the few seconds before his part began. _“Dreamless dorm._ _T_ _icking clock. I walk away from the soundless room.”_

“Not bad,” Ryuji said.

Akira merely shrugged in response.

He was good, Ryuji had to admit. Despite his usually deep voice, the new guy was matching Minako note for note with apparent ease. As he went through more phrases, though, it became clear he’d taken a few minor liberties to make the song his own. It had that crystalline quality that had made S.E.E.S.’s vocalist such an immediate icon, but there was something about the way he handled it, that Ryuji could only describe as...

“ _I will—”_

Angry?

— _burn—_

Aggressive?

— _my—_

Dangerous.

— _dread!_

_I once ran away from the god of fear and he chained me to despair!”_

“Shit, man!” Ryuji whispered, unable to contain himself.

Akira growled what might have been a “yeah” into the mic, but sounded and felt more like the fracturing of glass. _“Burn my dread!_ _I will break the chain and run ‘til I see the sunlight again!_ _”_

A gathered breath.

Then a cry.

“ _I’ll lift my face,”_

Then a hushed valediction

“ _And run to the sunlight.”_

 

***

 

“What the hell, man?!” Ryuji slapped Akira across the back. “It should be criminal to be that good!”

“Come on, it’s not that great,” Akira deflected. He glanced around, worried the outburst would have drawn attention, but it seemed it was nothing extraordinary for an evening on Inokashira Street. Seemed Tokyo-ers were insulated against attention. Which only made his statement ring truer—in a city of nearly a billion people, he couldn’t claim to be anything special.

“Besides,” he continued, “You’re not bad yourself.”

“‘Not bad’ and whatever you did are on totally different levels. Oh, hold on.” Ryuji pulled his cellphone out and skimmed over a message. “Huh, looks like I’m on my own for dinner tonight. So, you wanna go somewhere?”

Akira pulled out his own phone and checked the time. “I should be good for a few more hours. Anywhere you can recommend here?”

“I’m not exactly an expert on taste, but when it comes to fullness-for-money, I do have a few ideas.”

“Sounds good. Lead the way.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were standing by the entrance of a family restaurant, waiting for their table to be cleaned. Despite the terminology, the place was occupied mainly by young workers and other students much like themselves. Akira counted at least four different uniforms.

“So,” Ryuji said, “were you in a band before?”

“Sort of? I played in a group with some classmates but it’s not like we did any gigs.”

“Okay but did you have a name for yourselves?”

“I guess. It was kinda dumb. Typical middle school stuff.”

Ryuji grinned mischievously. “Yeah? Let me guess, something like ‘Lords of Darkness’ or ‘Kamaitachi’ or something?”

Akira returned a disgruntled expression. “What do you take me for? Some second-grade syndrome sufferer?”

“Okay, how ‘bout you tell me what you guys called yourselves and I’ll tell you what my ragtag bunch used to be known as?”

“A trade, huh?”

But before he could come to a decision, a waiter informed them their table was ready and ushered them upstairs.

There were a number of tables opening up, as it turned out, which meant that the two of them were fortunate enough to be assigned a boot that would normally have seated four people, if not quite comfortably. Ryuji made a beeline for it but Akira slowed down as he caught sight of a familiar mix of red and black: another Shujin uniform—and furthermore, a face he recognized.

“What’s up?” Ryuji asked as Akira took his seat. “You look kinda...”

“I saw that guy from Kamoshida’s band.”

Ryuji tensed up and his voice was similarly taut. “Where?”

“Booth in the corner.” Akira pointed in the general direction, hiding the gesture by adjusting his glasses.

Ryuji turned as discreetly as he could.

“It’s the scrawny guy. Whoa, that’s a shiner. The hell happened to him?”

“Well, it’s just a hunch but...” Akira explained his encounter with the three band members in the faculty office, including their claim that he’d assaulted Mishima off-campus.

“Those assholes. That’s just like them. The other year...”

But Akira had stopped listening. Over in the corner, three students in an unfamiliar uniform had sidled up to Mishima’s booth. They were standing in a row, blocking the seat he was in and nearly obscuring him from view. There was a certain swagger to them reminiscent of the two thugs from the day before.

“So I guess that’s the sort of company he keeps, huh?” Ryuji said, now leaning forward to observe the scene. “Guess some people get their kicks being pushed around.”

“Come on.”

“What? Hey, wait up!”

But Akira was already striding across the floor to the other booth. He approached from the side opposite of Mishima to make sure he’d see him. The startled look on his face had the desired effect on the three other students, who likewise turned to face him.

“What’s this? One of your friends, Mishima?” one said.

“Well, you know what they say,” another chimed in, “birds of a feather—”

He cut his words short as Ryuji stalked over to the booth. Akira could sense the ire coming off him in waves.

“Well,” the first one said, “good to see Mishima’s making new friends. We’d stay and chat but we’ve got other plans.”

The other two students murmured vague concurrences and sauntered off.

Mishima watched them go until they reached the stairs and then turned to his new company. Sighed. “Well, w-what do you want?”

Akira glanced at Ryuji and nodded to the seat beside Mishima. As his still scowling companion sat there, hemming Mishima in, Akira took the seat opposite him.

“I’d ask you the same thing. Are black eyes your idea of a good time?”

Mishima flinched. “L-look, I didn’t have any choice, okay?”

“Haven’t heard that one before,” Ryuji scoffed.

Akira raised a hand to placate him without removing his gaze from Mishima. “What’s he holding over you?”

“I have to follow him. He’s the conductor.”

“Why stay in the band?”

“W-why..? Because! Where else am I going to play music? I’m… n-not good enough to go solo. But with the band I’m actually getting somewhere—”

“Shit!” Ryuji hissed. “Our orders are there.”

“Go on,” Akira said. “I won’t be much longer.”

With a nod, Ryuji hurried back to their booth.

“Is that really all you want?” Akira pressed. “To sit there and win awards?”

Mishima pinned his gaze to the table.

“If it is, well, then I guess there’s really nothing for us to discuss. But if it isn’t…” Akira shrugged. “Look, I know what it’s like to be knocked down and pushed around. And I sure as hell don’t enjoy it. Ryuji seems to think you do. To each their own, I guess.”

He moved to stand.

“But I find that hard to believe. Seems to me you’d much rather be playing to your own beat. Maybe we can help each other out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I envision the S.E.E.S. band as something like Beck/Mongolian Chop Squad: playing songs that involve rap, singing, and/or a mix of both. I figured their iconic single would have to be something that showcases both, so I've taken liberties with the version of "Burn My Dread" that exists in this story's universe.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it this far, you have my thanks!  
> This fic is the result of my long abiding (if somewhat casual) love for rock music and stories about scrappy bands fighting (or sometimes succumbing to) The Man.  
> A more specific impetus was this one day when I was half-asleep and heard Firehouse's "All She Wrote" playing on the radio and immediately remembered Ryuji's victory calling card line. (Alluded to in one of my other fics, too.)  
> To be quite transparent: this is heavily inspired by Harold Sakuishi's"Beck: Mongolian Chop Squad" and the actual history of the band Guns n' Roses, based mainly on Duff McKagan's memoirs. The Phantom Thieves themselves are based on amalgams of Gn'R's members and other famous musicians. If you see a lot of similarities, this will hopefully explain them.


End file.
